


Incognito

by mardia



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Pet Sociopath, Undercover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-14
Updated: 2018-12-14
Packaged: 2019-09-17 23:45:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16984083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mardia/pseuds/mardia
Summary: “What the shit is this, Konstantin?” Villanelle hisses into the phone during one of their twice-monthly check-ins over a secure line. “I’m the best you have and you have me stuck in some MI-5 basement doingpaperwork?”“Listen to me, Villanelle,” Konstantin says soothingly, “You are the best we have, that’s why we entrusted you--”“To shuffle papers?” Villanelle demands.“For this deep-cover mission in the heart of MI-5,” Konstantin says.





	Incognito

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Panny](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Panny/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide, panny! I was so excited when I saw which fandom we matched on, and your Yuletide letter was a delight. 
> 
> Content notes for non-graphic descriptions of canonical murders from the show.

Nobody warned Villanelle, when they were prepping her for this long-term assignment, that being an undercover spy would be so _fucking boring_. 

“What the shit is this, Konstantin?” Villanelle hisses into the phone during one of their twice-monthly check-ins over a secure line. “I’m the best you have and you have me stuck in some MI-5 basement doing _paperwork_?”

“Listen to me, Villanelle,” Konstantin says soothingly, “You are the best we have, that’s why we entrusted you--”

“To shuffle papers?” Villanelle demands.

“For this deep-cover mission in the heart of MI-5,” Konstantin says. “This is good for the organization, and what is good for the organization is good for you too.”

“Mmf,” Villanelle says. 

“We’ve set you up well, haven’t we,” Konstantin says, coaxing now. “Don’t you like that new luxury flat in the heart of London?”

“Mm,” Villanelle says, but more considering now as she looks around her place. She has to admit, the flat is beautiful, and with one hell of a view. “The building is ugly. Was the architect drunk?”

“It’s London, all the architects are drunk there,” Konstantin dismisses. "But this is why we made sure your cover is as an heiress, so you can have that lovely flat and keep buying all the treasures your greedy heart desires."

"All the treasures I've _earned_ ," Villanelle corrects. "Speaking of, when are you going to have me kill someone again?"

"Don't worry, there will be plenty of blood for you to spill before long," Konstantin promises. 

"There could be blood for me _now_ ," Villanelle says, and an idea occurs to her. "I could kill Carolyn Martens."

" _No,_ " Konstantin says firmly. "Absolutely not."

"It would be useful!" Villanelle protests. "You're the one who said she was getting closer to the bosses, she's the one who created this new MI-5 task force or whatever it is."

"God help me," Konstantin mutters in Russian, but Villanelle knows he doesn't mean it. Konstantin eventually ends the call, with warnings for Villanelle to behave herself, stay in line, blah blah, more boring stuff. 

Once the call has ended, Villanelle walks over to the nearby window, staring out at her view. The weather outside is shit, of course, as is typical for London, but the view of the city is indeed spectacular. 

If Villanelle won’t be sent out to make some fun, she’ll just have to go out and find her own.

*

The breakthrough comes on a Thursday. Villanelle is wearing one of her stuffy suits from Marks and Spencer and hating everything about it, when some dickhead by the name of Frank orders her--her!--to go and drop some files off upstairs. 

Villanelle takes the files with a brisk smile, and lurid fantasies in her head of what she could do to Frank behind a locked door and just one of her knives, God, the arterial spray _alone_ \--

But Villanelle does her job and heads upstairs, knocks on the closed door with a quick rap-tap-tap and the sweet high English voice of her alter ego Natalie Beauchamp, calling out as she walks in, “Hello, I’ve got some files--”

And as she comes in, she sees two incredible things. One is a giant board attached to the wall, covered in photographs of Villanelle’s most recent kills, bodies sprawled and crumpled, blank eyes staring into nothing--and in front of the board is a woman, her small pale hands caught in a cloud of black hair, already in the act of gathering her thick dark curls up again into a topknot. 

Villanelle stops in her tracks, and the woman turns around, her dark eyes bright in her oval face, her expression inquisitive but not annoyed. “Yes?” she says, her accent American. “Hi, who are you?”

Villanelle is dimly aware there are other people in the room--but there is only one thing she is looking at, one thing she cares enough to pay attention to. 

The woman in front of her, the woman with that _hair_ , smiles a little bit at Villanelle, and presses, “Are you lost?”

At last, Villanelle finds words. Even better, she remembers to say them aloud in the accent she needs to keep for her role. “I’m so sorry, I have, erm, some files for you? Frank sent me up here--”

“Oh, brilliant,” the woman sighs with relief, immediately moving to take the files out of Villanelle’s hands, her thick hair tumbling down to frame her face as she does. “Thank you, that’s great.”

“Yes, it only took Frank three days to accede to our request,” the white middle-aged man in the room says dryly. 

“Well, it helps when you have Carolyn in town, and she can scare him into doing as he’s told,” the woman says over her shoulder, grinning, and the sight of it sets off a pang in Villanelle’s chest. 

_Look at me_ , she thinks. _Let me see that smile head on._

“I’m Natalie, by the way,” she says quickly, and is rewarded when the woman turns her attention back to her. 

“Oh, right! Hi, sorry, my name’s Eve.” Eve gives her a friendly but absent-minded smile, her mind already far away. “Thanks for dropping these off.”

She has a nice body, Villanelle thinks to herself. Well, Villanelle assumes that Eve has a nice body; it’s almost totally hidden by those hideously ill-fitting clothes. Does Eve have a vendetta against proper tailoring? Villanelle can appreciate a looser fit, but there is draping and then there is _baggy_. 

But these questions will have to wait for a later time, as Villanelle--as _Natalie_ has clearly outstayed her welcome. “Well, I’ll leave you to it,” she says in her sweet voice, smiling at the man, who nods politely back at her. 

Eve nods goodbye absently, already moving to scrape her hair back up in a bun, and Villanelle hesitates, her hand already on the doorknob and her body already leaning towards the exit, but--

“You should wear it down,” Villanelle says, and as Eve’s startled gaze meets hers, Villanelle nods and quietly leaves. 

*

Within a matter of days, Villanelle has gathered enough intel to make Konstantin cackle during their next check-in. “This is good work, Villanelle, very impressive,” he enthuses. “We might even be able to arrange a little overseas trip for you very soon, let you have some real fun.”

“Good to hear,” Villanelle says brightly, smiling--and she is very careful not to mention that she’s been making her own fun lately. 

*

For someone that fascinates Villanelle so totally--Eve Polastri leads a very boring life. 

Eve’s clothes are the least of her problems, as it turns out--and given how bad those clothes are, that is really fucking saying something. That husband, _ugh_. Bridge? Who the fuck plays bridge anymore? The only reason Villanelle even knows what it is is because of that one Agatha Christie novel she picked up while settling into her role as Natalie Beauchamp, posh heiress and administrative drone for MI-5. 

Still, as stupid as the whole bridge thing is, it does give her an opening. 

Villanelle-as-Natalie arrives at the community center, dressed down in a bomber jacket and jeans, plus a pair of handmade boots, makes her way through the tables, pretending not to understand the conversations in Polish she overhears, spotting her target at the bar. Eve is slumped over in her seat, and Villanelle smiles at the sight of her. 

As if she can feel someone’s eyes on her, Eve looks up, her forehead creasing before recognition washes over her face. 

“Natalie?”

“Eve, hi!” Villanelle’s accent may be put on, but her smile is all too real. “I’m sorry to barge in, but some people at the office mentioned that your husband runs a bridge club, and I was rather at loose ends tonight, so I thought I might pop by.”

“Uh, no, of course you can...pop by,” Eve says slowly, still looking slightly confused as to what Villanelle is doing here--fair enough, Villanelle also cannot believe she is spending her Friday evening pretending to be a fan of fucking bridge. “Here, have a seat.”

Villanelle happily takes the seat next to Eve, ordering a hard cider because that seems like the sort of drink Natalie would ask for when she’s not drinking expensive wine, or fruity cocktails at a club you need a secret membership to get into. 

“So you’re a fan of bridge, then?” Eve asks, while Villanelle is taking her first sip of her cider and trying not to gag--God, this shit tastes _terrible_ \--

“Ugh,” she mutters, but not low enough to slip past Eve. 

“Wait, you’re...not a fan of bridge?” Eve asks, looking around the room in confusion. “Because then you are definitely in the wrong place tonight.”

Villanelle snorts with laughter at the joke, forgetting herself, and Eve grins back, her smile wide and full of delight and the most beautiful thing in this entire place. 

As distracting as that glorious smile is, Villanelle’s brain does start working again, eventually. “Oh! I meant, erm, my gran was the real bridge player in our family. I’m really just a novice.”

Eve smiles politely at this, nodding, but somehow doesn’t quite look like she’s buying the story. 

“And I was bored tonight,” Villanelle says next, in the air of a confession. “I can’t _stand_ being bored, it drives me utterly mad.”

Something in Eve’s face softens, and she says, glancing down at her drink, “Yeah, I know the feeling.”

A curl of hair falls over her forehead, and Villanelle wants to touch it so badly that her fingers _itch_ with it. 

To distract herself, Villanelle asks, “So what do you do then, to keep from being bored?”

“What do I do,” Eve considers, resting her head on one hand, her elbow propped up on the bar. It’s an utterly disarming pose, one Villanelle catalogues in her head to use for herself later. “These days, I mostly just work. Speaking of, what brought you to London?”

Villanelle immediately launches into her cover story--poor little rich girl, working for various charities in Johannesburg before deciding to come back to the UK. “And now here I am,” Villanelle says, dimpling at Eve in the way she has been assured by Konstantin is very charming. 

“Here you are,” Eve agrees, but she doesn’t look charmed--her eyes are distant, assessing. 

This look is why Carolyn Martens specifically chose Eve, a former nobody, to run the team assigned to take down Villanelle’s bosses, Villanelle is sure of it. 

She doesn’t find the thought of being assessed by this clear-eyed woman alarming--no, it’s _thrilling_. 

“That still doesn’t explain why you’re here tonight, though,” Eve points out. 

“I hate boredom.”

“So you said,” Eve replies, a hint of amusement peeking through. “Of course, you wouldn’t be really trying to get yourself transferred to a new department, maybe one where you didn’t have to deal with Frank Haleton?”

Villanelle blinks. “What makes you say that?”

Eve points at Villanelle’s floral silk bomber jacket, and says with total confidence, “Nobody comes to play bridge in a jacket that looks that good.”

Villanelle can’t help but preen, just a little. “You think I look good?”

“Of course you do,” Eve says, knocking back the rest of her drink. “Too good to be in this place, pretending to like bridge, anyway.”

It occurs to Villanelle to ask herself just how many drinks Eve has had tonight. This is an opening, though. “And if I did want to transfer to a new department?”

Eve’s face softens, and she says, not without kindness, “Then I’d tell you that our budget is microscopic, and we don’t have the space for anyone else right now. I had a hell of a time even getting Elena.”

Villanelle nods in sad acceptance, just the way that her alter-ego would respond, but she adds, jokingly, “Not even if I tell you where I got this jacket?”

Eve laughs long and loud, tipping her head back, exposing the line of her lovely throat. “I appreciate the offer, but I doubt I could pull it off the way you do.”

God, there are so many innuendos and come-ons that Villanelle wants to say so badly right now. 

She restrains herself to a mild, “Oh, I bet you could pull off anything.”

For a second, Eve’s startled gaze meets hers, clearly wondering if--

Villanelle innocently blinks back at her, smiling as she takes another sip of her drink. 

*

And just like that, Villanelle isn't bored anymore.

Even Konstantin approves of VIllanelle taking the initiative to monitor Eve Polastri, but he seems bemused by her sudden enthusiasm for anything that doesn't involve fashion or killing people.

"You know we have other people stationed in London that can manage this," Konstantin says over the phone.

"Yes, but I'm already right here."

"Yes, yes you are." Konstantin pauses before saying, "London seems to be agreeing with you after all."

The suspicion in his voice is clear, and Villanelle just smiles. "What can I say? I like the rain."

*

For someone who works for MI-5, Eve’s house is absurdly easy to break into. Villanelle’s managed it three times already on her lunch breaks. Tonight, though, is bridge night, which means Villanelle has all the time in the world to examine the mediocre home of the woman who fascinates her so badly. 

She starts with the kitchen, sneaking a bite of the leftover shepherd’s pie she finds in the refrigerator and idly nudging around some of the magnetic poetry on the refrigerator door. The house is very cluttered, very...soft. Not the way Villanelle thinks of Eve. 

Villanelle isn’t looking to rummage through Eve’s possessions, not tonight. Tonight she has a very specific plan in mind. 

It’s the work of minutes, going up the stairs, carefully stripping down in the bathroom and filling up the tub with water. Once it’s full, Villanelle slowly sinks into the hot water, picking up the bar of soap from its little dish and rubbing it between her palms until she’s worked up a good lather, the white suds slipping down her wrists. 

The actual smell of the soap, Villanelle could mostly take or leave--all right, she could leave it--but the idea of smelling it on her own skin later, of walking past Eve and perhaps catching just a whiff--that idea, Villanelle loves. 

She lets her hands trail down her breasts, her fingertips rubbing at one nipple as she closes her eyes, and visualizes Eve kneeling at the edge of the bathtub, fully clothed, looking down at her. Her eyes are dark and full of knowledge, and she starts her questions out slowly, probing. 

“Why do you do it?” she would ask, and Villanelle would shrug it off. “Because they pay me.”

But Eve, smart woman, would know better. “No. Tell me why.”

“Because I’m very good at it,” Villanelle would tell her, her voice full of pride. “Don’t you think I’m good at it, Eve?” And she’d reach out with one wet hand--

Villanelle grimaces, the vision wavering behind her eyelids. No, too fast, too abrupt. If she’s going to do this, she’s going to do it right, she’s going to do it _perfectly_ \--

“Tell me about Italy,” the imaginary Eve says in her head, wearing one of those fuck-awful sweaters that hides absolutely everything. “Tell me about the man you stabbed in the eye.”

“He was one of my favorites,” Villanelle replies, letting a hand slip between her legs. Eve watches her do it, eyes wide, but she doesn’t tell her to stop, she doesn’t leap back, she just sits there and she _watches_. “I climbed into the house using a drainpipe…”

It doesn’t take long for Villanelle to push herself right to the edge, with her fingers on her clit, the still-warm bathwater lapping over her breasts, remembering the man falling to his knees, his face twisted in agony and fear, and the imaginary vision of Eve in her head listening to all of it, watching as Villanelle gets herself off. 

“It’s so easy, every time,” she tells Eve inside her head, gasping as her climax rolls over her body, overwhelming in its sweetness. “Let me show you. Let me show you everything.”

Villanelle has always been good with her hands. It doesn’t take her long to get herself off, to drain the tub and rinse off in the shower. She’s brought her own towel to dry off with, and she carefully wipes down the wet bath and bathroom floor, removing any traces that she was here. By the time Eve and her boring husband with the mustache get home, they won’t notice anything at all, other than perhaps, just maybe, the faintest whiff of soap. 

*

Konstantin must be getting more worried about Villanelle being left to her own devices in London, because soon after that, she’s sent out on a job. An actual job, not this paper-pushing bullshit or the more interesting task of monitoring Eve Polastri and her team. 

"This should be fun," Villanelle muses, looking over her postcard. "I like Berlin."

"Make this clean and discreet, Villanelle," Konstantin warns, and Villanelle snorts. 

"Have you seen where I'm going to get this guy? What about this is going to be discreet?"

"You know what I mean," Konstantin insists. "No funny business, not with this Eve Polastri snooping about." He pauses, before adding, "I've been checking her out, actually. Smart lady. Good hair, too."

"Oh?" Villanelle says in her most innocent way. "I hadn't noticed."

"Villanelle," Konstantin says, his voice firm and no-nonsense, the disapproving father. "Don't play stupid, it doesn't become you."

Except that Villanelle has been playing stupid for months now, playing the stupid good girl Natalie, with her airy voice and cheerful demeanor and boring, boring personality. Every time Eve Polastri passes her in the hallways without a second look, her gaze sliding over Villanelle like she's not even there, Villanelle twitches with thwarted fury. 

"Haven't I been good?" Villanelle asks him, rhetorically. "Haven't I done everything you've asked me to do?"

"Yes," Konstantin agrees, his voice heavy. "That's what concerns me."

Well. She'll just have to find a way to reassure him, then.

*

The beauty of being Villanelle is that there are many, many things she is good at. 

But there is a special joy in doing the thing she is the very _best_ at.

It's beautiful, really, watching the Chinese general jerk in pain as he dies at Villanelle's hand. Seeing that spark of life, that thing that makes a human being alive rather than simply a bag of bones and blood encased in skin--watching as that spark fades away, retreating inward until it's gone from sight, as if it never existed. 

When it's over, Villanelle lets out a sigh. What a wonderful time she's had in Berlin--and what a present she'll leave behind for Eve when she goes. 

Konstantin is going to have a _fit_ when he hears what she's done. Villanelle only grins to herself as she slips out of the clinic, already thinking longingly of when she can bin this horrible nurse's costume and wear her proper clothes again. Maybe she'll go out dancing before her flight leaves, that would be fun. 

*

For all the many thrills her job has given her, this one is new--getting to witness the chaos she’s created first-hand. 

Villanelle is aware of the sudden burst of increased activity from the moment she walks into the London office. For once, the smile on her face isn’t forced as she greets everyone, catching a glimpse of Eve and Frank gesticulating angrily at each other in a conference room while Carolyn Martens, _the_ Carolyn Martens watches them impassively, her arms crossed over her chest as she waits them out. 

Clearly they’ve heard of her latest present, and Villanelle has to bite her lip hard against the laughter bubbling up in her throat. 

She manages to settle down at her shitty cubicle without peering at the conference room too much, but when Frank Haleton walks up to her computer, with that pinched, sour-lemon face he always has, Villanelle looks up with the empty-headed pleasant expression she’s crafted as part of her Natalie Beauchamp persona. “Yes?”

Frank’s sour face only gets worse, as he jerks his head in the direction of the conference room. “Come with me,” he says, and walks off, not waiting for Villanelle to follow. 

Someday soon, Villanelle is going to scoop Frank Haleton’s eyes out of his head and put one eyeball in each hand, right before carving up his body like a choice cut of meat from the butcher. 

Her face carefully blank until they enter the conference room, Villanelle doesn’t have to fake the spark of interest that brightens her face as she sees Eve and Carolyn Martens sitting at the table. “Hello,” Villanelle says in a cautious tone, not quite able to keep from letting her gaze linger on Eve, ignoring the cheap gray blazer of her suit to marvel at the tightly-coiled energy of her, that spark that brightens up her beautiful face.

“Hello, Natalie,” Carolyn says, nodding politely at her. “We were wondering if--”

“Hi, do you want a job?” Eve blurts out, talking right over Carolyn. Carolyn looks totally unsurprised by this impatient show of poor manners, while Sour Frank scoffs in the background, but they don’t count, _nothing_ counts compared to Eve Polastri finally focusing all that attention right on Villanelle, finally finally _finally_.

“Eve, I understand your impatience, but some restraint might be in order,” Carolyn says, her voice dry. 

“Oh, sorry,” Eve says, momentarily abashed, but only for a moment. “You said you wanted a job with my team, though. Do you still want it?”

Yes yes yes. Yes, she wants it, she wants _everything_ \--

“I--I’m sorry?” Villanelle-as-Natalie asks, blinking as she looks from Eve to the others. “You said there wasn’t an opening--”

“There wasn’t,” Carolyn says briskly. “Now there is.”

“The pay’s bad and the hours are long, and I’ll have you looking up some seriously weird shit, but I can promise that you won’t be bored,” Eve says. 

“Yes,” Villanelle says, finally letting the smile blossom on her face, not worrying if it’s too sharp, too dangerous-looking, too _off_ to pass in a room of people. “Yes, of course--I’d be delighted for the opportunity,” she adds, hastily looking from Carolyn to Frank. 

“Well, there you have it then,” Carolyn says, not looking displeased. “Now, Eve--I believe you have a flight to Berlin to get ready for?”

“Berlin?” Villanelle asks in a tone of curiosity, a thrill running along her spine. “What’s in Berlin?”

“A dead body,” Frank says dourly. “And Eve’s assassin doppelganger.”

Eve rolls her eyes, and Carolyn says, her voice a very quiet rebuke, “Frank.”

Frank actually seems to shrink back, shuffling his feet. “Of course it’s all very alarming, and we’re very worried for Eve,” he mumbles. 

Eve pastes a oh-so-fake smile on her face as she says brightly, “Thanks for the concern, Frank.”

Villanelle bites the inside of her cheek to keep from letting out a shout of laughter. Carolyn’s gaze shifts to her, too perceptive, and Villanelle quickly drops her gaze. 

There is a dangerous woman, Villanelle thinks, and doesn’t flinch back from the thought. 

“Well, now that all that’s settled, I should show Natalie where her new digs are before Bill and I head off to Berlin,” Eve says, and Villanelle beams happily as she follows in Eve’s wake. 

The hallway they’re going down is narrow, narrow enough that Villanelle’s elbow keeps brushing against Eve’s, close enough that--if Villanelle concentrates--she can just about imagine she catches a whiff of clean, familiar soap rising off Eve’s skin. 

It’s a fantasy, of course, but a pleasant one--and the point is that at last, _finally_ Villanelle is close enough to Eve to fuel as many fantasies as she likes.

*

Konstantin’s opening greeting is about what Villanelle should have expected. 

“Hello, _Eve_ ,” Konstantin says, his voice heavy with disapproval. “And how are you doing today?”

“Very good,” Villanelle replies, refusing to be chastened. “I got a promotion at work, aren’t you proud of me?”

“I would be prouder if you weren’t dropping exactly the wrong name at exactly the wrong time,” Konstantin grumps. Villanelle purses her lips and waits him out, and she’s not disappointed. 

“All right,” Konstantin grumbles. “You did good to get on the team. Now tell me what’s going on.”

Villanelle does, and for all of Konstantin’s grumblings that he would throttle her if he was there in person, he’s pleased, Villanelle knows he is. Even if he ends the call with, “And don’t use Eve Polastri’s name as your alias when you’re out doing jobs!”

“I won’t, I won’t,” Villanelle promises, and she even means it. It’s _so_ boring to repeat yourself when giving a gift, after all. 

*

Eve comes back from Berlin a week later, bubbling over with excitement. The bosses and Konstantin would be alarmed at how much information she’s already gleaned, at how smart and perceptive she clearly is, but for Villanelle--watching her be so brilliant up close, seeing all that intelligence and enthusiasm all laser-focused on the mystery that is Villanelle, is just _fantastic_.

Villanelle’s already made sure to cosy up to Kenny and Elena during the time that Eve was away, but the second that Eve comes in and gives the latest update on the case, Villanelle fixes her attention entirely on her. Eve doesn’t seem to notice, far too busy giving out leads for Kenny to follow up on (leads that are very promising, Konstantin is _not_ going to be happy), but Villanelle also notices that Bill keeps watching her thoughtfully. 

Smug man, she thinks to herself. And his moustache isn’t very impressive at all. 

Just as Villanelle is thinking this, Bill speaks up, saying, “But we have a bigger problem than this homicidal Jane Doe. Eve--you’re on their radar now, and that’s a very dangerous place to be.”

Eve grimaces. “If they wanted to scare me off, they would’ve done worse than dropping my name at a crime scene. No, this feels like--I don’t know, a taunt, maybe?”

“Or she’s saying hello,” Villanelle offers. 

Eve turns to stare at her, as does everyone else--Elena has her eyebrows raised, Kenny is blinking at her owlishly from over his computer screen, and Bill is tilting his head in that show-off way that Villanelle has decided he has. 

But Eve--Eve is looking right at her, her dark eyes lighting up with interest now. “Elaborate on that,” she urges. 

Villanelle doesn’t need to be asked twice. Making sure to come across as hesitant, unsure of her standing, she stammers, “Well, it--it only makes sense, doesn’t it? She’s gone undetected this long, and if Eve’s is the first to notice her, what she can do--”

“You think she likes having an audience,” Eve breathes out. 

“Yes,” Villanelle says, looking right into her face. “I do.”

“Ohhhhkay,” Elena says slowly. “Not to interrupt all this brilliant psychological analysis, but do I really need to point out that having the attention of a deadly international assassin is generally considered to be a _very bad thing?_ ”

“Well said,” Bill chimes in. 

Spoilsports. 

Still though, Eve’s attention has been captured at last, although if you really think about it, Villanelle has already had her attention for ages--and so Villanelle is delighted, if unsurprised, when Eve invites her out to lunch. 

Over two plates of delicious Indian food, with enough spice in it to make Villanelle’s eyes water, Eve starts their conversation with, “I just wanted to see how you were settling in.”

Through a mouthful of food, Villanelle gets out, “Oh? That’s so lovely of you.”

“And to get a better feel for you,” Eve continues. “See, you don’t quite add up.”

Villanelle goes still, a tiny part of her calculating exactly where each of her hidden knives are strapped to her body, the probable weight of the glass pitcher left behind by the waiter and the damage it could do when smashed against a human head. “What do you mean?”

“You don’t make sense,” Eve says, gesturing at her. “Most of the time you read as this sweet posh girl, shopping in high-end stores and flea markets on the weekends, never a bad thing to say about anybody--and yet here you are, taking a pay cut to help chase an assassin, spending all your days looking at gruesome crime scenes.”

“What’s your point?” Villanelle asks her, keeping one hand underneath the table, where Eve cannot see it. 

“My point,” Eve says, “--is that you’re a secret weirdo. But now it’s time to let the freak flag fly.”

Villanelle chokes, and then starts to laugh. “I’m sorry, what?”

“You heard me,” Eve says, doing her best to maintain a poker face, but her mouth is twitching. “You’re surrounded by weirdos, there’s no point in hiding anymore. Have you _seen_ Kenny?”

Villanelle snorts, before looking Eve up and down. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

Natalie wouldn’t say this. Natalie wouldn’t say anything important, she’d just simper and smile and fuss over what was _proper_. 

But Eve’s already made it clear--unknowingly, but all the same--she’s bored by Natalie, finds her dull and unbelievable. It’s the smarter play, then, to show Eve--not her true self, but _something_ true.

“Don’t you hide too, in those clothes you wear?” Villanelle asks. Eve is wearing an especially horrendous cardigan today, the color that reminds her of nothing so much as mustard that’s been in the fridge a year too long. 

Eve blinks, surprised, and says automatically, “I don’t hide, I just--don’t bother. Nobody cares what I wear.” Her eyes drop momentarily as she says it, though, and Villanelle presses the advantage, instinct driving her forward. 

“You should show yourself more.” Eve’s eyebrows fly up, and Villanelle says quickly--because Natalie wouldn’t let the innuendo lie there, even if Villanelle wants to, “I don’t mean in terms of skin, or too-tight clothes. I mean your personality. Who you are. You wear clothes all day every day--why have this constant thing in your life you hate?”

Eve’s still watching her, her hand paused in mid-air, her fork dangling from it like she’s forgotten she’s even still holding it. She shakes her head a little, coming back to herself, and pokes at her rice, saying, “Who knew you were such a fashion expert?”

“You did ask,” Villanelle says quietly, turning her attention down to her own plate. 

“Yeah, I did,” Eve says, considering. “Okay, leave my wardrobe aside for a moment. You’ve been studying our files for a week now--”

“And your notes,” Villanelle adds. 

“So what do you think? That bit about her wanting an audience was good; do you have any other insights for me?” Eve is all eagerness now as she asks this, no longer uncomfortable or off-guard, just focused and present and brilliant, wanting Villanelle to collaborate on the mystery she’s trying to solve. 

“Well,” Villanelle says, drawing out her words. “Obviously this woman is methodical. She--or whoever’s behind her--they scope out these locations well in advance; they have to, in order for her to slip in and out the way she does.”

“Of course,” Eve says. “But the kills themselves, they’re not--they’re not planned out to the last detail, not like the rest of the missions. They’re more like, like--” Eve’s hand is circling in the air now as she tries to find the right phrase. “Like jazz improv.”

“Are you a fan of jazz?” Villanelle asks. 

“God no, it’s a metaphor,” Eve says impatiently. “There’s the beat, there’s a basic structure, something for you to start from, right, and then--you _improvise_. Play it by ear. See how the moment takes you.” Eve’s hands, moving through the air this whole time, finally pause in mid-air as she finishes, her fingers reaching up as though she’s beholding a work of art--

And as far as Villanelle is concerned, her kills _are_ works of art. 

She just didn’t think she would find someone like Eve, someone who could _appreciate_ it. 

Villanelle licks her suddenly dry lips. “And what does that tell you about her?” she asks, her voice oddly hushed. Something about it must tip Eve off, break the spell, because Eve lets her hands drop, her gaze turned inwards once more, quickly pulling the mask of professionalism back on again, as though Villanelle didn’t see her just now. 

“I think it means she’s got very powerful people bankrolling her,” Eve says. “I think that she’s probably the best they’ve got, if it means they let her go off the way she does.”

Konstantin would have a fit, if he could hear Eve speaking now. He’s already stewing as it is, Villanelle knows, worried about the exposure, about Eve’s insights paired with the drive of Carolyn Martens and what it will mean for him, for the bosses. 

If Konstantin were here right now, listening, he’d find a way to make sure that Eve Polastri didn’t live through the night. 

Villanelle, though--Villanelle has much different plans for Eve Polastri. 

“You should call her Villanelle.” she says, taking a sip of her mango lassi. “The assassin, I mean. Call her Villanelle.”

Eve tilts her head, confused. “What, wait--like the poem?”

And the perfume, Villanelle thinks but doesn’t say. “We need a code name for her, some kind of shorthand. And it suits, don’t you think?”

She holds her breath, waiting for Eve’s reply. Eve is thinking it over, absently running the back of her fingers along the curve of her jaw. Villanelle watches, imagining a future in which it will be her hands running along the curves of Eve’s lovely face, feeling Eve’s pulse thrumming right beneath that thin, vulnerable layer of skin at the throat. 

Soon, soon, soon. 

“Villanelle,” Eve muses, and finally smiles. “You’re right, I like that.”


End file.
